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| QUOTATIONS 1947-1974 |
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| 1947. The sun rises whether there is anybody to greet it, or nor. The water flows whether there is anybody to drink it, or not. The fruits grow whether there is anybody to eat them, or not. For if there is nobody to be warmed, to be refreshed, to be fed the sun will still rise, water flow, fruits grow. A book is written to be read by somebody. A song is sung to be heard by somebody. A picture is painted to be seen by somebody. And if there is no one to read, to listen, to look what is a book, a song, a picture for? 1948. An intellectual growth like any other is situated in time. Some start early, hence the term "precocious." The others are "late bloomers." In most cases its duration does not coincide with one's length of life. In some people it is over by the time they reach late twenties. Others go on till they are in their forties or fifties and then stops. After that they, intellectually speaking, remain the same till death. And then there are very few whose intellect never stop growing. The more they live, the more they learn, and if immortality was possible they could become like gods. Perhaps that's why God put limits to man's life, out of fear of competition. "My spirit must not forever be disgraced in man, for he is but a flesh." There is a negative personal side to this continuous intellectual growth. When one grows and the people around him don't, one becomes more and more separated from his friends and the loved ones. They're having less and less in common, the gap grows wider and wider and there is an increasing frustration at inability to bridge this growing gap. Marriages dissolved, friendships broken, families destroyed. There is sadness, regret and anger on all sides. Yet, nothing could be done. It is in the nature of men, perhaps as predetermined as one's physical traits, that for each of us there is a point in time when we reach our intellectual destination and can't go any farther, while the others move on, not being able to stop even if they, being afraid of separation, want to. And as they leave behind more and more people they become lonelier and lonelier. There is a price to be paid for everything under the Sun. 1949. One is usually at his best as an individual, and at his worst as a member of a group. 1950. I held the world as but world, Gratiano– A stage, where every man must play a part. With all due respect, I must disagree with Shakespeare. The real world is not a stage. For on a stage a character is free to say what the rest of us in real life would like to but couldn't — in order not to offend, not to upset an apple cart, not to disturb a peace, not to ruin a career, not to face retaliation, not to break a friendship, not to destroy a family, etc., etc., etc. And the same dichotomy, and for the same reasons applies to action —unlike on stage there are consequences in real life. For where as at the end of the play, all exiled, maimed, killed, etc. appear again intact to take a bow in real life, alas, they never do. Moreover, if we do play a part, it is, in most cases, not the part given a choice we would — the world is a stage where every man must play not himself but someone else. 1951.As the true faith doesn't need a heartfelt music, inspirational paintings, soaring cathedrals to reach spiritual exaltation, so the true love doesn't need external stimulants like clothe and make up, flirting and seduction, sex games and intoxication to experience the bliss of passion. 1952.Everything is in the past. All the great books have been read, all the mind opening revelations experienced. All the wonderful music has been heard, all raptures and soaring emotions felt. The most exhilarating joys, the most excruciating sadness are all behind. What is left are the steadily fading apparitions of the things past. As I have aged this world has aged with me its blissful joys, its devastating sorrows are gone forever, and I have to face the grime and grimness of the gray tomorrow. The grapes were squeezed until no drop was left, the overvintaged wine turned from sweet to sour, the winds of many years have blown away the petals of the life's fading flowers. A pleasure well became a pit of pain, the meager crumbs replaced a pure delight, the fierce storms and the relentless rain bleached rainbow into black and white. As I have aged this world has aged with me as I grow old this world is growing older with each new day leftovers of my life are losing taste and getting cold and colder. 1953. By the time a medical student finished his extensive training and officially qualified to practice medicine he is fully aware how little he and his colleagues actually know. But practice they must. And so doctors spend their professional lives helping each other to conceal this "dirty secret" from the patients by acting both as individuals and collectively as if a book of life is open to them and them only and nobody else can read it correctly. 1954. A poet spends his life waiting for The Poem. The one which comes one day fully formed in his mind in all its majestic beauty like Athena from the head of Zeus. And when it‘s done he looks at it amazed and incredulous –have I actually written it, or was it some supernatural power which used me as its instrument? And later, some times much later when he rereads it again his heart is overwhelmed with gratitude for this rare privilege. Then, if he is given to sentimentality his eyes may swell with tears and he feels that at the end his life was not wasted, for The Poem has justified all that was. 1955. Here are some of the derivatives from the Law of Unintended Consequences, or LUC for short: do not fight too hard for anything –it is difficult, if not impossible, to foresee how at the end, at the very end, it will all turn out; sometimes standing still is the best way to get ahead; occasionally doing nothing is the best way to get something done; there are situations in life similar to being caught in a quicksand –the more you struggle to get out the faster you sink in; the best or the worst happens to us when we're least expecting it; sometimes the slower you move the farther you get doing all the right things is not a guaranty against the wrong outcome. Such and similar cases gave life to believes into fate and predestination. For it has been observed often enough that trying to avoid certain things may actually increase likelihood of them happening. The ancient Greeks were firm believers in fate. The Greek mythology is replete with failures to escape the pronouncements of the Oracles, the voices of fate. The very attempts to prove them wrong would only contribute to their fulfilment. The most famous of these cruel ironies is the fate of Oedipus and his father Laius. Laius, king of Thebes was told by the Delphic Oracle that any child born to his wife Iocaste would become his murderer. Without going into details, suffice is to say neither this knowledge nor his efforts prevented birth of his son Oedipus. Then, he tried to kill the child and failed again. Soon after Oedipus was adopted by the king of Corinth Polybus and his wife Periboea but was never told about it. When Oedipus grew up he also went to ask the Delphic Oracle what future lay in store for him and was told that he would kill his father and marry his mother. Understandably, Oedipus was horrified and believing Polybus and Periboea were his real parents decided never to return to Corinth. On his way from Delphi he met Laius and during confrontation killed him not knowing that Laius was his real father. Then he proceeded to Thebes and after defeating the Sphinx married Iocaste, unaware that she was his real mother. Thus the oracle has been fulfilled. There are at least two conclusions which may be drawn from this tragic tale. The first, don't go to Delphi and talk to the Oracle –the less you know about your future the better it will be. The second, if you know your future and don't like it, don't try to correct it, it will only make things worse. Just leave it alone and hope for the best. I am sure there must be others equally useful conclusions but you will have to figure them out yourself. Good LUC. 1956. IT IS... ...as natural for me to think as for a tree to grow, as natural for me to talk as for a bird to sing, as natural for me to write as for a river flow its waters are free and so my pen and ink. A tree is growing not to be admired, A bird is singing not to hear applause, A river is flowing without getting tired, I write to write. There is no other cause. 1957. Contrary to the prevailing expectations, especially on the part of the better half of humanity, I always looked upon my body as a support system for my brain rather than for my penis. And I am absolutely sure that switching the body parts to allow for gender differences there are women out there who feel about themselves exactly the way I do. 1958. Every writer, at least in our enlightened age of compulsory education, begins as a reader and generally has read hundreds of books by the time he starts to write himself. And when he does, sooner or later he is going to be asked, especially if he is a poet, the same standard, timeworn question: "who has influenced you the most?" And though a writer (usually a new one, for the established writers are seldom asked and never answer such an impertinent question) anticipates (and dreads) this question, it doesn't make any easier to answer it. That is not to say that some of these new writers unsure of themselves wouldn't try it, by invoking a few literary stars, past or present, as their predecessors, mainly to support a claim to readers' attention and not because they actually know or believe it. For in truth this seemingly simple question, usually asked by rather simpleminded people, have no definite answer. For unlike his physical body which consist of a certain amount of carbon, a certain amount of oxygen, a certain amount of iron, etc., etc., a writer's artistic creativity, imagination and skills could not be analyzed into, let say, 10% of Shakespeare, 5% of Byron, 11% of Dickens, etc., though each one of them, any many more, contributed to what he does as a writer. Some perhaps more than the others, but it is absolutely impossible to say by how much. Unless, of course, a writer decides to imitate some of them, invariably the successful ones. But then he is not a true writer but an imposter, wearing a borrowed dress and speaking with someone else's voice. And if this is so, why would anyone want a copy instead of an original, an ersatz in place of a real thing? 1959. In Canada, which claims to be a multicultural society, though in truth this term identifies, however implicitly, only those who are not Native, French or English and often loosely referred to as ethnics, a writer belonging by virtue of birth to one of these ethnic components of Canada and thus branded as a hyphenated Canadian, i.e., Italian-Canadian, Ukranian-Canadian, Chinese-Canadian, etc. is often expected to write about his ethnic community, whether he feels like it or not. For it is assumed, automatically, that he has to fulfil certain obligation to his particular group. But like everything else which is imposed against one's will, this compulsory "belonging" is mostly counterproductive and brings about the predictable and mediocre works, which actually do disservice to the very community a writer was supposed to give a voice to. By far the best way a hyphenated writer can celebrate his ethnic group and "speak for it" (if we accept the premise that he should, which is highly questionable proposition to begin with) is by following Polonius advice, "to thine own self be true," i.e. by remaining as authentic and sincere as possible. And then he couldn't help but to honor his ancestors, both immediate and far removed, for he is blood of their blood, and flesh of their flesh, and his voice is their voice, whether he is aware of it or not, and through him his people speak to the rest of humanity. He is like a new branch on the old, old tree the roots of which goes down into the depth of the ages. Tens, hundreds, thousands of people live and die for him to be, they are all in him, and he is all of them for as long as he is true to himself. 1960. I agree with Marshall McLuhan's description of poet as an antenna of his times ( or something to this extent) and for the following reasons. There are in this world the thick-skinned people and there are the thin-skinned ones. And then there are a few ill-fated who have no skin at all. They touch the world by millions of nerve endings, they feel everything, they react to everything. As they are bombarded by the billions particles of life each one makes a mark, causes a wound, draws blood, leaves a scar. They scream from the slightest pain and moan from the slightest pleasure. They are the first to start and the last to stop crying. They are the first to start and the last to stop laughing. In the cacophony of being they listen to every voice, they hear every sound. They are the organs for the winds of existence to play on, they are the drums for the gale of life to beat on. They are the poets. 1961. I am always more comfortable in the company of women , for they never begrudge my cleverness or envy my wit as some men occasionally do. It is either because women feel in general more clever than men, or because their field of competition is the beauty contest played among themselves and in which men are relegated to the role of mere spectators. Women also are much more aware then men of the regrettable fact that a book is judged by its cover and that no amount of cleverness and wit can replace beauty. Which, come to think of it, is not surprising since in the animal world the physical appearance is the main cause of attraction and we as a species is a part of it. And so while we're attracted to beauty instinctually, to appreciate cleverness and wit requires intentional efforts, which not everyone is willing or able to make. 1962. Sixty Seven My friends, allow me to share that I've survived another year. They'll have to wait, both Hell and Heaven I'm still alive at sixty seven. What's happened in the interim? The same or worse. First nature's whim, then doctors with their wonder drugs pumped full my body as with slugs I swooned, and hurt, and could not sleep, if I were a child I would weep. The thought that it's time to depart has often gripped my aching heart. Yet in meantime I wrote and read, ate, watched TV, and went to bed. Despite the harshness of one's life most of us want to survive. So, I'll go on, and hope, and wait to be alive at sixty eight. 1963. The common problem with all grand plans and designs is that the planners and designers are never the same as those who are ultimately asked, or to be more precise, forced to pay for it. 1964. As far as "ass kissing"is concerned I don't think anyone has ever made it to the top without practicing this art to a certain extent. Those pure souls who categorically and on principle refuse to engage into this less than honorable activity usually end up contemplating the aforementioned part of human anatomy from the most convenient point of observation – at the bottom. 1965.A poet describes, a doctor prescribes. A poet reflects, a doctor defines. What a poet writes people read, what a doctor writes people take to pharmacy. A poet mythologizes, a doctor pathologizes. A poet perceives life as a mixture of comedy and tragedy to cope with, a doctor – as a disease to be cured. Both are necessary, but do they ever see eye to eye? Can they? 1966. To watch a baby turning into a child, a child into a teenager, a teenager into a youth, a youth into an adult is to witness firsthand the greatest mystery life holds. 1967. One who is not completely certain of where he is going would never experience the satisfactions of arriving at the final destination and attaining a peace of mind conformable to such an accomplishment. Of course, I'm speaking of myself, simply trying to articulate this nagging feeling of life that didn't exactly take place, un-materialized, un-actualized, a seed that didn't break through soil, a bud that didn't burst into a leaf, a flower that didn't open to the sun, a fruit that fell on the ground green. Yet, there must be others out there who find themselves in the similar predicament of not being able to put in words the disquietude of their daily existence. 1968. The only people who don't regret the past are those who rewrite it. 1969. While a composer perfects the sound a poet clarifies the thought. So one should not expect the same emotional impact from poetry as from music, nor demand the same intellectual power from music as from poetry. 1970.Our opponents and adversaries, or simply people who think and express their thoughts differently than we do influence and shape us much more than we would be willing to admit –the law of action and reaction governs both inanimate object and living souls. 1971. Oh, Gentiles! When I was young I wasn't so much wanted to be loved by you as simply not to be so hated. And now, I just want to be left alone. But it doesn't look I'd ever have an option – I am a Jew. Thus, whatever is bad in me you made me so, and whatever good is left I managed to save it from you. 1972. Everyone is familiar with the expression "survival of the fittest." But by observing how people feed squirrels, admittedly one of the cutest rodent, in Toronto parks I came up with another expression, which I believe to be as valid as the first one–"survival of the cutest." For it clearly helps to be cute, whether one is an animal or a man, to survive. Think about human babies, who are the cutest precisely when they are the most vulnerable and totally dependent on others to survive. And being irresistibly adorable certainly helps to motivate their caregivers and everybody else. 1973. As a Jew I see my life's mission in maintaining friendly relationships with as many Gentiles as possible thereby providing them with this famous alibi –"Some of my friends are Jews." This is the least I can do to advance the noble cause of the universal brotherhood, which admittedly is doing so badly right now that it needs all the help it can get, even from someone like me. Happy to oblige –"Blessed are the peace makers: for they shall be called the children of God." 1974. The world is a corrida. The people are the bulls. The Jews are the red muleta to fool them into believing that this is the adversary and to distract them from their real enemy – toreador. |
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